


Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

by Lucy31



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Just Stydia meeting in an alternate universe, Lydia Martin works in an opera house, Lydia is writing a thesis in theoritical mathematics, Musician Stiles Stilinski, No Angst, Stydia, and falling in love, fluff and love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy31/pseuds/Lucy31
Summary: She has a choice.She can choose to draw a line under her scientific career and tell the Lydia who chose science after high school that it’s time for the other Lydia’s dreams to flourish... The one who marveled at how pretty the red velvet seats were when her grandma took her to see a ballet for the first time.On a rainy day, Lydia is desperate for an answer... On the same rainy day, Stiles is late.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, here I am, with another new fic while I still have one to finish, I know... But this one wouldn't leave my head and I needed a break from long multi-chap fics. This one will be shorter than what I usually write, it takes place in a complete AU... so much that I didn't have a specific city or country in mind when I wrote it.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this one, I simply needed to let our beautiful babies meet and fall in love in an universe free of angst and awful monsters. The heart remains the same: Stydia love each other and their love is the purest <3
> 
> As always, I look forward to your feedback :)  
> And as always, thank you SO MUCH for your help, Christina <3  
> Lucile.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It started in the middle of the night, and it still hasn’t stopped.

Completely oblivious to her close surroundings, Lydia watches relentless raindrops crash against the windowpanes, their corpses sliding down until they all merge in the dirt. This side of the opera house isn’t protected by arches like the other one, and she starts feeling like a fish in an aquarium. Fingers constantly poking at the walls to see if she moves, poking at her flesh and wounds.

She won’t move though. She promised Allison a few hours ago that she would be alright, and she will be.

Lydia spent the night at her friend’s place. They barely slept, and Lydia dozed off on Allison’s shoulder in the almost empty subway this morning, lulled by the comforting and familiar rattle of the train…until it left the underground. Then, the cabin suddenly resonated with the violence of the weather. Clouds fired their merciless shots all around, awaking her with a start. She remembers the echo of a war drum in her rib cage, one that only knows how to play at full strength and with her whole body. The one that always answers the call of the rain.

It barely lasted a minute before the train went underground again and Allison was already hugging her, already murmuring heartening words to Lydia’s ear. Her friend is always there, never once trivializing what the rain awakens in her. Memories and nightmares Lydia would rather forget…

The ones that might have only existed in the imagination of a sick, eight-year-old kid, but that have always been colored in hues of _what if_ , in the haze of possibilities. Always the same tiny theater room with the screening of the same silent black and white movie, a pianist playing tunes that are still echoing between memories of eyes sparkling with mischief in the dark and stolen candy bars. The tunes hide from her consciousness but sometimes, she manages to welcome a few notes on a piece of paper, hoping she will eventually gather enough to make them stay and if she is lucky enough…find a clue.

No matter how often she dives into that universe in her mind, she never makes out more than the landscape.

The rest is missing.

No matter how often she tries to stay inside the theater room to see if she can figure out what it is, she always ends up outside, where the nightmare shows its true face.

It’s pouring down in a way that’s only possible in the northern islands. Clouds are bursting in the background from the kind of wind that annunciates hurricanes. Its gusts imprint their movements in everything they collide with; blasts of gale Lydia has always been sure were born in the middle of the oceans and galvanized by the mighty puff of gigantic sea creatures. In the midst of the tempest, strands of Lydia’s hair slap her face, sticking to her cheeks and neck while strong arms pull her backwards and the sparkling eyes are swallowed by nature’s fury. She can hear the screams… The sound of pain and grief, wrenching cries shooting through her skull while the downpour keeps pounding away at the car she is urged into.

When she has a good day, the piano tunes drown everything out, allowing her to believe that it’s all part of the movie, allowing her to make up her own ending. But this morning, she didn’t have any luck. She heard everything. The screams could be hers or someone else’s, it doesn’t matter. She feels them inside of her anyway.

As always, this is the part when she wakes up. Never before, never after…and all the details are gone.

The reminiscent violent sounds of the storm in the subway made it harder for her to break loose from the clutches of fear and terror. Allison’s hands were covering her ears, nestling her head in the crook of her neck while her soothing voice slowly brought her back to a safe space. ~~~~

Together, they walked to the opera house. Lydia told Allison she didn’t have to go with her, that she didn’t want to make her late, but Allison only had to raise an eyebrow and hook her arm with Lydia’s elbow to stop her insisting. Her friend opened her giant green umbrella and engulfed Lydia in her peaceful presence.

When they parted ways, Lydia was feeling genuinely better. But it has been a few hours now, and everything came rushing back with the downpour. ~~~~

In the main hall of the opera, the director is in the middle of a speech that he must have started more than an hour and a half ago. Barely a few self-indulgent words have been able to break through the fog in Lydia’s mind.

Outside, the deluge has turned the Rose Square and its black and white tiles into a glistening chessboard. The artist who conceived the square wanted it to resemble the keyboard of a piano, but something went wrong with the execution of the design. Not for the first time, Lydia lets herself imagine what it would be like to have an actual piano hidden under the tiles. She might enjoy the rain if she could hear its music, perceive the personality of every raindrop. The histrionic ones who hit the ground like the tragic heroine who faints right before intermission or the ones who kept their child’s soul and playfully bounce in puddles. What would they sound like?

Lydia is certain that if rain could play music, a few moments of grace would hide in the cacophony. Lost in her imagination, she doesn’t feel the forewarnings when everything inside starts to loosen. Fear unclenches its hand from her throat, the padlock below her chest opens… She knows what it means. The downpour is coming to an end.

Swallowing thickly, she welcomes the treacherous gift the skies always bring her when they get quieter. Her heart sinks like a sailor lost at sea, silent sighs of despair traveling through every one of her exhales.

It almost feels like a disappointment.

Like something was supposed to happen, and it didn’t.

Like the rain was supposed to bring her something, and it didn’t.

In an attempt to stop the feelings from consuming her, she tries to concentrate on the present, focusing her stare on the director. The entire staff has been planning this day for months now. They are welcoming a new orchestra along with a new conductor, and this event has made her anxious in every sense of the word.

The last conductor was there for more than ten years. Lydia admired him. She loved the way he always respectfully recreated the exact atmosphere of every piece of music, performed them the way they were meant to be performed. She still remembers the first time she heard him and his orchestra. It was like being taken back in time, like being the youngest daughter of a good family at the end of the 19th century, looking to the opera for the magic she couldn’t find in her life. In the darkness of the concert room, with no one to witness her emotions, she would listen almost religiously, letting the music dig into emotions trapped in her flesh. As quietly as possible, the goldsmith in her soul gets to work, turning the notes into delicate beads that her eyelashes patiently collect until her neck claims them, lacing them over her breast to appease its heaving longing.

The new conductor is modern, young, a woman with a completely different vision of music and Lydia still has no idea what it will mean for her. Soon, she won’t have to wonder anymore. After the official welcoming speech, there will be a concert, a kind of dress rehearsal for the big opening tonight.

Lydia should be excited, but she isn’t. All she wants is go back home and curl up in her bed with headphones over her ears to cover the sound of rain. This storm lasted too long… It’s taking up too much space inside of her, and if the ceremony isn’t over soon, she has no idea how long she will be able to hold back the tears.

As if it wasn’t enough, she has to defend her thesis in ten months. It was settled yesterday. The sleepless night she spent at Allison’s discussing her options until the break of dawn hasn’t changed a thing. There is still a decision to be made. _Her_ decision. _Her_ choice.

The memory of her own words creates a lump in her throat. _I’m not sure I want to be a researcher, I’m not even sure I want to work at the university anymore._

It was the first time she voiced this thought out loud, the first time she let it experience freedom. She waited for Allison’s answer, her entire body simmering and paralyzed with anticipation.

_What do you want to do?_

Her friend’s simple question silenced all the noise, and she let her dreams bloom in endless sentences.

In six years, the opera house has become more than just a job. It had never been anyway.

As an usher, Lydia is allowed to stay at the back of the audience every night to watch the performances. She never denied the fact that this was the main reason why she chose the position. Opera has always been her breathing space. It doesn’t matter that she has to sit for three or four hours on a tiny folding seat. The cellos just need to start playing for her to cry her relief. Once she starts, the music takes the shape of stories in her head. Depending on her mood, it’s either a sweet romance, a tragedy, or a heartwarming comedy… ~~~~

She always knew she would have to quit her job at some point, but yesterday, she was given an actual date: January 21st…and her whole world collapsed like a house of cards.

Ten months.

Maybe eleven, maybe she will have a few weeks to prepare, but it will still be the end.

And she has a choice.

She can choose to draw a line under her scientific career and tell the Lydia who chose science after high school that it’s time for the other Lydia’s dreams to flourish... The one who marveled at how pretty the red velvet seats were when her grandma took her to see a ballet for the first time.

Can she really do this? Drop everything to work here? To do what?

Lost in thought, Lydia doesn’t realize that everyone is already heading to the concert room. One of her colleagues asks her to lock the main gate, something about having to wait first for a musician who hasn’t arrived yet. She nods, not even sure of who asked her.

Small groups chat around her as she heads to the gate, their voices just a lulling and hushed background for her thoughts. It’s stifling.

As she opens one of the door panels, she is taken by a draft of brisk air, making her shiver and chasing the last groups from the hall. Like a tidal wave, longing answers the pull of the biting humidity. Trying to keep her head above the surface, Lydia gives a tight hug to her petite frame, holding her delicate shoulders like she craves to be held. _Longing_ …

Can people long for something they never had? Or is it a sign? A relic that has been left behind? It feels like the beacon of a lighthouse in the dark, relentlessly trying to draw her attention so she never forgets… She lost something or someone. Deep down, she thinks her body has understood this for a long time, but her brain doesn’t. It’s always the same struggle. What do her cells know about the rain that she doesn’t?

Sighing, she concentrates, trying for the millionth time to read something between the lines cutting up the horizon into tiny comic strips, trying to make out any silhouette the water might draw for her in the dancing puddles. But she has never been good at this.

There’s no outline in the grey sky, only horses or whales in the clouds. Sometimes, the drizzle whispers over her head. She thinks she understands a few words, but the slightest glimmer of hope scares away any meaning she thought she had found.

She takes a few steps forward, descending the first steps without daring to go further because she couldn’t stand the glacial touch of a single droplet. Not today. On her bravest days, she lets herself get engulfed by them, letting their coldness mingle with the salt of her grief, hoping it will trigger something new in her. It never does. It only brings her back _there_ , to that place in the northern islands where, day and night, the sky and the ocean compete to be the loudest before making up and merging into one.

Her stare falls on the restaurant next to the opera house. Scaffoldings have been scarring the beautiful building from the 1920s for months now, giving the rain excuses to be louder, less considerate, and more obnoxious. Two turtle doves coo on the lowest platform before swiftly flying away towards another shelter invisible to anyone but them. Their wings flap loudly, and Lydia can’t help being moved by the sight of this grey couple. But she doesn’t have time to give them the attention she would like to because across the empty square, she makes out another movement.

Someone is running, taking long strides in the opera’s direction, protecting what appears to be a jacket rolled up into a ball. It’s a young man in a suit… A drenched suit. The sound of his shoes splashing in the puddles slowly takes her back to reality, revivifying the life around her. Even her thoughts seem to untangle from the birds and the weather to find an anchor in reality.

It must be the musician. “Well, it’s about time...”

She wants to grumble, wants to greet him with a condescending attitude because what kind of person arrives this late on such an important day? But she isn’t in the mood. Still, she rehearses a few scolding lines in her mind while she folds her arms to try to keep the same air of regal composure the marble statues wear inside. She almost believes in it when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“Sir, you’re very—” 

But he rushes past her, cutting her off. It throws her off balance, and she stands still for a few seconds, barely able to believe what just happened.

“Rude…” she mutters for no one as she follows him inside and locks the gate behind her.

She finds him in the middle of the empty hall, trying to catch his breath with his hands leaning on his knees and his more or less dry jacket trapped in his clenched fist. She waits, not really knowing what to do or what to say, her eyes roaming over the hall as if she could find an answer in one of the centuries-old paintings.

The nine Muses are looking down on her with a fleeting smile on their lips and the shadow of a smirk in their eyes. Lydia could usually stay hours long marveling at those paintings, picturing all the things those deities must have witnessed, wondering what hides behind their knowing smiles, all of them surrounding the crowd, hovering over. It always reassured her for some reason. No matter what happens, they _know_. But today, it irks her more than anything else. Erato’s smile never looked so sneering.

She shakes her head and focuses on the poor man who is still in the same position. Too much time has passed for him to still be struggling for every breath.

She takes a few cautious steps towards him, anger subsiding with each one. Around the black fabric of his jacket, his knuckles are turning white, and his face is contorted in pain. His inhales still don’t seem to know what they are doing, but she’s pretty sure his respiration shouldn’t be this irregular anymore.

“Are—Are you okay?” she inquires, genuine concern now settling inside of her.

He doesn’t answer, only glimpses briefly at her. What she makes out in his eyes is enough for her to stop faltering. He nods, uttering a word sounding like “sorry” but she reaches out to him anyway, one hand on his back and the other around his arm.

Quickly looking around, she leads him towards the bench next to the reception desk. “Here, sit down.” She guides him until she is certain he won’t pass out. Panic suddenly takes over, what if he has a serious condition? “Do you have asthma?”

But he shakes his head before burying it in his hands, his words barely audible, “Just…ran a lot…was… so late…”

He just needs to catch his breath. “Good…” Straining her ears towards the concert room, Lydia only hears muffle sounds of conversations. “They haven’t started yet. It’s alright.”

As she sits by his side, she marvels at the softness of her own voice, the calmness that has spread inside of her, making her forget everything – her sadness, her longing, her anger… Now, all she wants is for this stranger to breathe normally.

“You didn’t miss much anyway… I love working here, but those people…they love to congratulate themselves whenever they can…”

She can’t be sure because she can’t see his face, but she recognizes the sound of a laugh weaving its way through one of his exhales, making him cough.

Heat rushes to her cheeks when she realizes that it might be too bold a thing to say to someone she doesn’t know. “I… I mean…” she stutters.

He swiftly waves at her, and his wheezing voice interrupts her train of thought. “S’okay.”

It’s a small word, but it’s the first steady one, and it’s enough for the knots in her shoulders to loosen.

He will be alright.

She catches herself smiling as endearment sweetens everything inside of her, stopping her hand from wavering between her own lap and his back. She immobilizes it between her knees and continues calmly. “Focus on your breathing. You’re doing great.”

He nods in his hands as she guides him through every inhale and exhale, helping him slow his heart rate without really remembering where all that knowledge comes from.

Everything she rehearsed a moment earlier seems irrelevant now. The respect he owes to the opera, the lecture she thought she wanted to give him about being late, it all vanishes, seems ridiculous compared to the hope that nothing too serious explains his absence in the morning, compared to the taste of victory that comes every time one of his exhales lasts longer than the previous ones.

Eventually, he uncovers his face and leans his elbows on his thighs, letting his head fall. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

Hearing a whole sentence from him stirs another surge of relief in her.

Without waiting for a response, he continues, “Earlier, when I ran up the stairs… That was rude, I’m sorry.” Respiring slowly and deeply, he eventually lifts his head to look at her.

In the hesitation that follows, Lydia notices how suddenly thick the silence around them seems to be. For a few seconds, she is even certain she can sense the weight of all the atoms around them, all that matter suddenly halting in its random choreography. There is an intensity in his stare... Maybe _intensity_ isn’t the right word, she ponders as the moment expends. A gentleness, something real, genuine and unaltered. Something that seems to captivate the attention of every cell in her body, coaxing all her organs and muscles to disrupt their work and absorb some of the peaceful energy hanging around them.

Above, a timid ray of sunshine brushes against the dome and filters through the stained-glass windows; little strands of sun braving the rain and melding with the gold and red of the paintings on the ceiling, melding with the rich green eyes of Erato in front of them.

At the time, Lydia doesn’t notice it. She can’t focus on anything but this drenched, nameless stranger. Loud and clear, she hears what her heart is soughing, but she won’t listen, and yet…and yet he looks like he has been deposited by the clouds along with the rain.

It takes a shiver running up her spine for her to be reminded of how cold the hall can get when it’s empty. Time resumes its course as if nothing happened when she notices the faint quaking of his chin, his teeth chattering with the cold. Water is still trickling down his neck, soaking into his shirt. He must be freezing. If he could at least dry his hair, he would be more comfortable.

As she searches for the cloth that she keeps in one of the desk drawers, Lydia realizes he is probably waiting for her to reply.

It takes a few more embarrassing seconds for her to remember what he said.

When she answers a low, “It’s okay”, she is grateful for the desk to hide her flushed cheeks from him.

She gives him the small length of fabric.

He is already thanking her, running it around his head, when it occurs to her that she used it earlier to dust the seat in the concert room. Sure, it’s not dirty, but still…

Her warning words fade into thin air when he looks at her, his ruffled hair accentuating the way he heavily blinks.

“What?” his voice is soft, and the word seems to curl up at the corner of his lips, waiting there for an answer longer than it should have.

“N-Nothing…” Lydia doesn’t have time to fixate on the heat around her neck because a door slams somewhere and echoes of distant voices reach them.

_We’ll call someone at the Academy to cover for him if he isn’t there. I’m not waiting a single minute more._

Next to her, the musician turns his head towards the door leading to the orchestra pit under the stairs. “D’you think it’s too late for me to sneak in through the back door?”

His smile is crooked when he looks at her, and she can’t help laughing through her nose, nodding, “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“That’s too bad…” He slowly stands, but he sways a little, his knees threatening to buckle.

“Careful,” Lydia gently reminds him, her hand immediately hooking around his elbow to steady him.

The cold fabric of his shirt is plastered to his skin… Empathy overwhelms her, how could he ever play like this?

“Hold on, I think we have towels somewhere, I can bring you one before the concert starts…” She is already thinking of a quick way to fetch them or to find a spare suit in the locker room, perhaps something for him to eat or drink when the unexpected warmth of his palm seeps through her sleeve and skin, bewitching all her thoughts until they all trip over the mild pressure of his fingers

“It… It’s okay…”

Self-consciousness immobilizes her when she realizes that his other hand is stopping hers from brushing away the droplets that collected on his shoulders during his fall from the sky.

Flustered, she takes a step back, folding her hands behind her back. “I… I’m sorry, I… I just…” she can’t find her words, not daring to get caught in his eyes again.

“My jacket isn’t too wet. I’ll–” His fingers are reaching out to her elbow when a voice behind her interrupts him.

“Stiles! For the love of God, where the hell have you been?”

The young man’s stare passes from her to the person behind her.

The glimmer of amusement she saw in it turns into panic as she feels its bite too. It’s a reflex for her to turn around and stand between this _Stiles_ and the man under the stairs.

“You know…” he tries in a tone that sounds too light for the state he was in a few seconds ago. “Walking…enjoying the good weather…” The man raises an eyebrow and Stiles’s voice keeps getting lower. “Not making jokes about being late…”

For a few seconds no one says a word, and Lydia needs to bite her lips to not laugh nervously when her musician adds, “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll shut up and hurry…”

“You have one minute to get ready, not a second more.”

As abruptly as he interrupted them, the man is gone.

When Lydia turns around, she lets her laugh erupt in a small burst.

It seems to make Stiles grin, and a laughing sigh escapes his lips as he locks eyes with hers. “I’d better go…” he whispers as he gives her the cloth back. “Thanks for your help.”

Instruments are already tuning up, sending panic through Lydia’s blood. She both wants to urge him to hurry and keep him with her until he is fully dry and rested.

Her fist clenches around the cloth. “You’re welcome.” It feels like an understanding passes between them when he grins at her, and she reflects his smile. “Break a leg,” she adds as he starts walking backwards, nodding at her with a bashful smile before disappearing in the long corridor.

Silence crashes over her shoulders as his steps gradually fade away. When she climbs up the stairs to the concert room, her movements are slow, deliberate, heavy, like this encounter made her more aware of everything around her. Her surroundings, her present, herself…. And yet, she has never felt lighter. Her mouth curls up in a smile, one so airy she couldn’t even bite it back if she wanted to because it would keep floating back to her lips.

Turning around when she reaches the door, she finally notices the ray of sunshine, and as if it had only waited for her to raise her head, it slowly vanishes.

Lydia takes her seat. After a few minutes, the overhead lights dim, and the conversations fade away. A smile sneaks over her lips as she pictures Stiles taking his seat as well, his breathing probably still loud and his hair still wet.

In the dark, following a longstanding ritual, people cough here and there. The first violin utters its A, and the conductor enters under a round of applause. Lydia never felt this electric anticipation more than today. It tickles along her arms, making her hairs bristle, making the most tender part of her soul hope… With her eyes wide open, she tries to adjust her vision to find her drenched musician. She wonders if on the other side, he is scanning the invisible crowd in front of him too.

Everyone sits down, and the music starts.

A few notes are enough to make her love the new conductor. Her music is completely different, it doesn’t take Lydia back in time, but it’s just as powerful. She melts into her seat and lets the notes morph into bridges between her and a present that never felt so _alive_ , so vibrant. Notes carry scents of flowers, the caress of a breeze, the humidity of grass between her bare toenails…and so much more with them.

At the end, the applause rumbles deep inside her, vibrations in the air spreading through her veins, rattling her bones. When everyone stands up to applaud a little louder, she follows. Her heart is already shyly asking her to spot Stiles, wondering what instrument he was playing. But she is too far away and even though she cranes her neck, she can’t see a thing.

Stiles… What a funny name…

* * *

She doesn’t see him again for three weeks.

Since the date of her thesis defense was settled, her agenda has been filling up faster than ever. It gives her less time for the opera. She doesn’t even have the opportunity to attend the rehearsals twice a week, like she used to, and it awakens a state of nervousness she hasn’t experienced since high school. Her breathing space is tightening under the amount of work accumulating, the classes she has to prepare for, and her own research. She is exhausted. Her mind only clears when she finally unfolds her seat at the back of the audience, discreetly takes off her high heels and lets the music carry her away.

She convinces herself that she isn’t thinking of Stiles that much. Only a little... Like when the orchestra starts playing for example, and she can’t help wondering which instrument he plays. Her imagination goes from wondering to wandering too. Like when she hears a piece of music on the radio, one she heard at the opera…or even one she hasn’t actually heard yet. Or on the street, when she passes someone in a suit, she remembers their meeting. Or when it’s raining, but also when the sky is blue too because his hair must be brighter when it’s dry, maybe chestnut brown or the same color his irises were… Does he have curly hair?

One day, the idea that he might have been fired for being late on his first day gets stuck in her head, and her intuition unfolds all the possibilities. People don’t get fired for being late once… But what if it’s a habit with him? This city has the best Academy of Music in the entire country. Unless he plays a rare instrument, or is a genius, replacing a musician is the easiest thing to do here. She doesn’t know why the idea of a stranger being fired twists her stomach this much. They didn’t even have a real conversation.

Halfway to the university on her bike, she brakes, already feeling fear snaking its ugly face around her throat. She has a class in half an hour, and the rehearsals start in ten minutes. Being late to class once wouldn’t be the worst thing, after all. She could simply check if he is there and go back to the university. She is probably just overreacting… But images of Stiles begging for money in the subway with his violin case next to him flood her brain. Will she have to check every subway station? What if he is under a bridge? How many bridges are there in this city? How many porches? What if he has been mugged on his first night?

Her rational side tries to reassure her. Even if he has been fired, chances are he’s in his apartment, safe and healthy…but she can’t get rid of the millions of other possibilities. Before she even makes the decision, she turns around and heads to the opera, sending a text to a colleague to take her class for her.

She goes straight to her favorite place. Somewhere close enough to the pit but high enough so she can see all the musicians. They are usually not allowed to go there, but rehearsal already started, and the hallways are empty.

As she goes up the stairs, she tries to remind her heart that she might not see Stiles… But it pounds with obstinacy in the silence. He _has_ to be there. She _has_ to know.

One last flight of steps and she opens a door. She hears the muffled music through the heavy panes of wood separating her from the concert room.

Inside, one glimpse in the dark is all it takes for her to spot him. He is in the back.

He is the pianist…

Rehearsal goes by, and Lydia will miss her three classes this afternoon. She won’t even remember she had them until her shift starts. She will be incapable of remembering on which section the orchestra was working because the relief of seeing Stiles blinds her to everything else.

Everything but two things that mesmerized her for the whole rehearsal.

One. Stiles discreetly dries his cheeks when the strings play, especially the cellos.

Two. When it’s his turn, thousands of expressions seem to cross his face. She could have watched him play for hours. She wishes she had binoculars so she could see him better, wishes they could be friends already because she recognized those expressions, and she knows they would have so much to talk about.

It’s all she can think of when she goes home, then later before falling asleep, and the next day too.

For months, she has been waiting for a document to be shipped from across the country so she can finally read it, and when it arrives on this day, she can barely focus.

Hours go by. Her pulse seems to be hooked onto the second hand of the clock. A countdown starts in her head after her lunch break. She knows she won’t have any respite unless she decides to attend the rehearsal today.

This time, she plans everything ahead, pretexting a last-minute appointment to shorten herpresentation at this afternoon’s conference. As she leaves the university, she realizes that she has never done that before. It makes her giggle. She had to wait the end of her college years to skip school…for a boy. Not exactly a boy. A man, a musician…a pianist.

To appease her guilt, she stuffs a few articles in her purse and exits the conference room without an ounce of regret.

Stiles is already sitting at his piano when she arrives. The other musicians aren’t there yet, and the Music Academy students are chatting in low voices on the right of the room. She sits as far away from them as she can and quickly forgets about her articles.

Stiles is working on a piece that she doesn’t recognize, using the soft pedal to muffle the sounds. She has to strain her ears but after a few minutes, she is sure that this is a piece he wrote himself. He breaks off here and there to take a few notes with a pencil that he either puts back down on his music stand, behind his ear, or even between his teeth. He is too far away for Lydia to see all the expressions on his face, so she tries to guess them in the way he moves over his keyboard. It’s mesmerizing.

She ends up leaning her forearms and chin on the backrest of the seat in front of her, closing her eyes to try to absorb his music. It’s broken, but her soul recognizes something that’s enough to leave her speechless as well as motionless. He must be in the early phases of a draft, gathering ideas and notes the same way a painter chooses his colors in dreams, flowers, and fallen leaves. He is looking for something, something elusive and crucial that leaves a thrilling taste in her mouth. But she doesn’t have time to find out more. She sees movements on Stiles’s right, and she understands that the other musicians are about to enter, forcing him to stop.

Barely a few seconds after, Stiles throws his hands in the air and interlaces them behind his neck. He is frustrated, and so is Lydia. She needs to hear more…

She goes back to the opera house as often as she can, sacrificing her nights to make up for all her delayed work. In a few weeks, she will probably regret it, but she would be fooling herself to think she can rest without attending rehearsals. It’s clear that she won’t find her peace of mind until she can add one of her rhymes to his music and marvel at a feeling that is more than an impression, a scene that fills more than a _maybe_.

There is something in his music. Something that expands the cracks and fissures which rain has carved inside of her over the years. Something that brings forth light — plain and soothing light, that warms up the sky and bathes her in a long-awaited sun shower. It makes her want to know him more, makes her want to see if Stiles can help her make out more than the outline of a silhouette in the rain.

But he isn’t always alone when she arrives. He isn’t always working on his piece of music. The accumulated tiredness in her threatens to spill out from her eyes in these moments… And yet, it’s nothing compared to the days when he isn’t there at all, and someone else is sitting at his piano.

Sometimes, she passes by him in the hallways or backstage. He must recognize her because he always smiles at her, greeting her with a nod or a wave. When she is tired of hiding in the darkness of the concert room, she lets his stare capture hers, searching for the impression he left behind on his first day. It’s easy because he always carries it with him. It’s in the attentive way he listens to the people talking to him, in the way his head turns when he walks by her, in the pleasant weight that she suddenly feels around her sometimes when she is at the reception desk.

More often than not, she lifts her head, and there he is, glimpsing at her above someone’s shoulder. Glimpsing, gaping…wrapping her up in his undeniable presence and kindness. It filters through her skin and spreads to her stomach, squeezing it a little. She tries not to name what’s happening in her, simply letting it mingle with the air she breathes. She enjoys the sensation even more when it replaces the disappointment of not listening to him play.

Rain doesn’t carve loneliness inside of her anymore.

Instead, Lydia surprises herself one day listening to its music as she is working late on her laptop at home. Her neighbors upstairs grow winter jasmine on their balcony, and it cradles random droplets before letting them tenderly slip against her window. The contrast with the drizzle in the background is delicate, light. It slowly envelops her in a gentle hug.

She didn’t know rain could feel like a hug.

For once, it doesn’t make her relive her nightmare. Rather, she thinks of Stiles, of his music…

She doesn’t know why, and it doesn’t really matter. She sees him at his piano, focused on that note he hasn’t met yet, on the feelings he wants to express without being able to name them. Because maybe something is missing. Maybe he sees the landscape, but there’s this tiny detail that haunts him. A detail that has always resided in his soul…like a forgotten tune. With her chin propped in her palm and her teeth faintly nibbling at her fingernail, she wonders…

Is he looking for that thing in the rain too?

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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